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... In Which Fenton Rochilieu and Hazlitt LeFleur Team Up To Sell The Garden District Assholes Into Slavery for the Overall Emancipation of Nola ...
Once One has been Sold into Slavery, everything else follows with Dead Certainty, even in the Midst of Chaos. And ever since that little incident where I was sold into it after Hazlitt was sold into it, well, what happened was that Frankie Minot somehow raised the money to buy our Freedom, and we had to fuck him for it. But look, we were already getting fucked ANYWAY. And that was the point me and Hazlitt started spreading all over the Quarter.
Those missile strikes were pointless and senseless, and I don't give a goddamn WHAT the Algiers Militia was thinking. We were Bogarting the Tourist Trade and the Heroin or something real nebulous. But it was sure fucking up my Scene, and me and Hazlitt Lefleur decided the residents North of Rampart in the Tremé District, who, after all, were getting the worst of this on the economic trickle-scale, needed to do what the fuckers in the Quarter and the Marigny WEREN'T doing: something. And the first thing that entered my mind, and Hazlitt's as well, was that to get something done in this town, we'd need a few slaves, ourselves. After all, that's what makes New Orleans tick! Or it did, that and the Mob, until the regrettable recent Chain of Events. But before you can SELL slaves, you have to capture them. So we decided we'd capture us a few Slaves and we decided we could do worse than to start with that dickfart Preston Foley.
He was out in his Garden having some kind of Premature Ejaculation over his Orchids when we drove up. But I'm getting ahead of myself. We needed a Plan, and we MADE a Plan of sorts, and I'll tell you what we did.
See, what you want to do to a man like Preston Foley is not just capture him, you want him to feel PAIN. You don't want to hurt him TOO bad, because he'll have lots of River Barges and shit to load once you OWN his white ass, but yes, a little play is in order here, especially since you've got to capture the nigger first. Now it just so happened that Hazlitt LeFleur had a substantial collection of Mardi Gras beads — not the plastic ones strung with weak twine like they have NOW, but the old ones, the glass ones. Me and Hazlitt just went up to his ass with a few strings of those things and when he said, "Get off this property, goddamn it" (he of course hadn't a clue in hell who we were), without so much as a word we just started WAILING on him with those things, and it's a pretty safe bet that within just a few seconds Foley was feeling some MAJOR pain, not unlike you might feel if you were in the hospital hooked up to one of those little catheters that Bears his Name and somebody just walked into your room and yanked the thing out of your dick like they were starting up a lawnmower.
Now I don't know to what degree you're aware of the Tremé Gris-Gris Mafia. They're a formidable presence in these parts, and their deal is not race or money, per se, it's the Perpetuation of Culture, of a New Orleans way of life. More about that later, but we had them okay by us through the machinations of LaFleur. But it was they in the van waiting us to haul off 'ol Foley to Dauphine Street.
I had an idea shaping — one that could maintain MY life, indeed better it — but odious and sleazy a character Raphael Fleetwhite may be, it was him and him only that could get shit together for me to institute it. Fleetwhite's a shitbag, make no mistake about it, but at least he gets things DONE, see. And we were going to see him, but not before we made a little stop, first.
But one more thing. Before we hauled his nigger ass off to be Sold, Hazlitt and I slammed our strings of glass Mardi Gras beads on the concrete and, wearing gloves, shoved them up Preston Foley's ass, and slowly slid them out like something in a really fucked up D/s video.
That must have really hurt.
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